


Wheezy

by lyin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Humor/Angst: always my genre, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Slow Burn, Weasley Family-centric (Harry Potter), aiming to post one chapter a day until caught up, and all canon relationships as background, and by 11 I mean 10 and 11 I intended to post today but got derailed, fair warning: there are supposed to be 19 chapters and there are 11 so far, i figure now is the time to finish fic begun in 2007, same bat pen name same bat title, so 'coming soon', so yes you can find this in its original form on ye ole ff dot net, tagging Angelina/George So You Know but fair warning:, while leaving the OG version untouched for posterity I'm making slight edits for my own sanity, will be tagging characters as they appear but expect all canon characters around post-DH
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23439916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyin/pseuds/lyin
Summary: George, without Fred. You get to live a lot, in nineteen years.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/George Weasley, George Weasley & Ginny Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's already April 2nd in the UK, but, Happy Birthday, George Weasley. 
> 
> I started this story in 2007; my updates have been intermittent since but the most recent was last June. It has never been on AO3 before, and I figured, it's about time and will help motivate me in these strangest of days. The early chapters are, well, my writing style 13 years ago. But I'm on a fic-finishing mission, so here we go. (... for further details, see tags...)

There were still two beds. He woke up in mornings from the light through the blinds, without any mad scratching from across the flat for a wand to close them tight or anyone leaping onto his bed to pummel him awake with pillows.

George Weasley pulled his red blanket over his head to ignore the wind at the window, the sun in his eyes, and the bell from the shop below.

Despite the idiom, the end of month weather was lion-like before dawn when the pounding on the door of the shop began to vibrate through the headboard.

He was unavoidably awake by then, but George's lashes remained stubbornly shut.

There was a small explosion, several squawks, and then a succession of squelches with accompanying unpleasant aromas that wafted up into his room as the booby traps presumably dealt with any thieves, plunderers, and/or stingy mischief makers.

George sprang up, wand hand moving on instinct, and Summoned to his hand the most deadly device in the room, which happened to have the appearance of a rubber chicken.

Ginny Weasley flounced in, expression demure. Her wand smoked where it stuck out of her robe pocket. The only sign of any strain was the clashing pink glow spreading to the roots of her hair. She was holding a box that had a distinct aroma of its own, a considerably more pleasant one. "You're going to need a new doorknob," she said cheerfully. " _Quite_ the lock you had on it."

"Merlin's bearded testicle, Gin! There _is_ a doorbell- a fully functionable, non-incapacitating doorbell!" said George, tense muscles relaxing as he rubbed the sleep grime from his eyes.

"Right there is," she said, plopping down on the end of George's bed without preamble. "And the next time I fancy a beautifying Bogglingly Blackened Eye courtesy of the knocker, I'll ring it, too."

"There's a dousing with the coldest water this side of the Baltic from the door frame as well, now," he informed her, hand twitching towards the box. She slapped it away. "Very refreshing. I highly recommend it, especially after a morning constitutional. What brings you Diagonally, Ginny?" His careless tone was belied by the unspoken question.

_Mum send you?_

"Broomstick," she answered lightly, choosing to misinterpret the question.

"Ah," said George sagely, perching on his bedpost. Seeing as she'd been seventeen for a while now, this topic was becoming progressively bemusing. "What'd you splinch this time?"

"Left nostril," Ginny replied promptly.

"And?" he added expectantly.

She sighed long-sufferingly.

"And I wound up in Wales besides."

"Were there sheep?" he asked eagerly, entertaining visions of Ginny landing in rural farmer's fields.

Ginny eyed him drolly. "It may surprise you, George, but there are places in Wales devoid of sheep, bovines, and any dung thereof."

"Right, but what are the odds you landed in one of those?" he commented, then, frowning, paused. "Wait a tock. Isn't it a school day? Or d-did you pull a Weasley?" The last he managed to get out with only one heave of strangulation, smile maintained.

George was rather impressed with himself.

She rolled her eyes. "I headed out with help from Gregory the Smarmy and Harry's Firebolt. I'm fine as long as I'm back by morning." Detention held little power at Hogwarts this year, after the end of the last. Peeves would cover for Fred Weasley's kid sister, too. "Anyways," Ginny said firmly, thrusting the white box at him as he opened his mouth to speak again, "Happy Birthday, George."

He jabbed his wand at the calendar. "I'm not older just yet."

"Give or take a week," said Ginny dismissively.

"If it isn't edible or explodable, I'm not all that interested," George said, though he'd snatched the box towards him at once and was already shaking it.

It was true, really. He'd been given enough photo albums of him and Fred to fill a shelf in the shop (and they'd Enchanted the shelves for surprising depth), although he really didn't anticipate much difficulty forgetting his brother's face.

"It's both, but as there's frosting involved, I'd recommend the former," said Ginny dryly.

He peeked. "Oooh, you've been tickling the pear-"

"Harry helped-" she continued over him, cutting off as George's eyebrows shot up.

"Hold up. _Hold up_. You've been tickling the pear with Harry?" his mouth contorted around the words in (mostly) mock disconcertion.

Ginny studied his expression and burst into a fit of giggles.

"Tell me no honor compromising is going on under Ron's long nose," George threatened, once she'd sobered.

"That," said Ginny airily, stifling a giggle-hiccup as she plucked out a pastry, "is none of your affair."

"You're eating my gift," George observed, tugging the box back. "Knew we ought to give him a talking to… I've been intending to chat with him on that same topic for a wh- _you've_ ** _had_** _one_!"

Ginny successfully wheedled a torte from the box. "There's more to it, anyhow."

"Oh?" said George, not half as lightly as he would have liked.

She stared at the few freckles on her hand following the line between thumb and wrist and flexed her fingers before brandishing half the torte in a magnanimous gesture. "George, I've plotted out your takeover of Gambol & Japes. And I think you should fire Lee."

His mouth dropped, then dropped a bit further at the last bit. It unhinged an extra notch he hadn't thought possible at the defiant expression on his sister's face.

Ginny steamrolled forward. "Not that Lee's not doing spiffing- though the books need work. Verity really mucked up the books."

"I shouldn't have fired her," George muttered to himself. He missed her, but she couldn't adjust to working with just him, George, and not Fred-and-George. It was getting her considerably too clingy. He couldn't do clingy. "Or we shouldn't have hired her, I haven't worked that out yet…" They hadn't exactly hired her for her brains. They'd been rather chuffed when she'd turned out to have some. However, they were rather un-mathmatically inclined. "What've Gambol & Japes done to you, to deserve such enmity from my favorite sister?" he demanded, before she unsubtly suggested – once more- he take Percy up on his offer to help him on the, well, boring bit of running a business.

"Only sister," Ginny said, tempering the compliment, but her lips turned up in the corners anyhow. "Unless you've got another locked up in the broom shed. As to Gambol & Japes, I have on good authority-"

"It's not Luna, is it?" George interrupted suspiciously.

"-on _**good authority**_ that Dr. Filibuster's latest have a distinctly wheezy quality."

He went sharply, dangerously still. It was this way all the time now. The way he wouldn't, couldn't stop moving was bad enough, but when George froze back over, whiskey-foam eyes fizzling to a flat glare, Ginny's stomach rolled over. "Wheezy?" he repeated, voice rasping.

She stared back at him gravely. "You have to remember to watch," Ginny noted solemnly, "who you sell to."

It was an echo of the words told to them after Dumbledore's death, all that business with Malfoy and the Peruvian Anti-Darkness Powder they couldn't bring themselves to sell afterwards.

"How wheezy?" asked George sharply.

"I think you'd better come with me," said Ginny, pulling up the hood of her robe. She eyed his distinctively red hair. "Grab a hat."

"Ginny, how wheezy?"

They could not touch their ideas. They would not. George would not let them. Granted, they weren't precisely properly patented according to Ministry guidelines, but they were his, and Fred's. Anyone would ripping them off was about to come to a fresh understanding of _paying dearly_. He'd rip their thieving minds out through their nostrils. "Accept no cheap imitations," he muttered darkly to himself.

Ginny waited a moment as he clenched and unclenched his hands. She conjured a hat from her wand when he stayed in place and adjusted it over his brow with a very Mrs. Weasleyish look set on her pretty face.

George watched her uncertainly, having half-expected for a year she'd ask him and get him to bring Fred round. "You want in?" he asked, gruffly.

"No," she said, regretfully. "I've got someone better for you."

George understood her meaning perfectly. "No. No! NO. That's the fastest way to hurtle the business down a bog! I've heard enough about _Weasley's Wizard Chess_ \- such blooming…" He progressed into a series of swear words in Gobbledygook, Troll, and possibly Gnomish, he wasn't sure about the last. It might also have been Bulgarian, but whatever it was, the invective grunts were surprisingly satisfying. After a few minutes of steely silence from his sister, he started feeling slightly stupid. "Why?" he muttered at last.

"Because he'll be good at it," she said coolly. "And sorry to correct you, but letting Percy regulate your WonderWitch line is the quickest way to bog up the shop." She lifted her chin, expression fierce. "Fred, I'm sure, would be thrilled you've let it go down the chute on your lonesome."

George clapped his mouth shut. She couldn't have silenced him more if she'd Silenced him.

"I'd help myself," Ginny added, "but the Wanderers and Harpies have been showing some interest in me."

"Felicitations," George offered, reeling.

She shrugged contentedly. "Ron?" she put to him.

"Ronniekins'll have to ask me himself." The viciousness of his tone threw him. Last he'd heard it, Fred was discussing Umbridge.

She waved that off expectantly. "He'd have my broomstick for kindle wood if he knew I was cueing you in. You'll talk to Ron?"

George cast his eyes ground-ward, licking his suddenly dry lips. "Can we head to Gambol & Japes already?" Without waiting for an answer, he strode towards the stairs, shoulders raised unhappily.

"George?"

He turned to study his sister's pursed lips and concerned face, thinking of Fred's burrowing frown back when he'd wanted to blackmail Bagman.

George blew air out of his cheeks and beckoned towards the stairs.

"Well of course," he said grumpily, voice becoming progressively snarly. "It's a _family_ operation." It'd probably look good to have a Weasley around with both ears, at any rate. Parents of witchlets and wizardlings already expressed enough concerns about safety hazards.

She opened her mouth behind his back as he leaped the stairs, three, four at a time. If he wasn't a wizard, he'd have shattered his ankles.

"But we're keeping Lee."

(Probably not the best time to mention the contract his friend kept turning down from the WWN because he was preoccupied keeping Fred and George's shop afloat, Ginny decided, seeing the quiet desperation in George's face when he flicked his head over his shoulder to catch her gaze.)

"Percy," said George, "can leave my books alone- _I have a system_ \- and if Ron wants to help, he can round up the pygmy puffs."

Percy could probably help with the patent bit though, George reflected. And it was probably best not to be testing all the products on himself anyhow. He'd see what Ron thought of those Sugarspun Spiderwebs…

The shop, as they rounded down into it, looked even more awry with the door off. He wasn't sure what sort of charms Verity had done to keep the dust off, but it seemed to keep coming back when he tried it. The dust was against him. A pygmy puff rolled forlornly across the floor.

"You lost the pygmy puffs?" Ginny exclaimed, looking deeply wounded at the missing adorability.

"Not lost," George corrected absently. "They're here. Somewhere." He realized, as he almost tripped over a box of Canary Creams that looked eerily appealing, that his stomach was rolling thunderclouds of misery towards his brain. He wasn't sure when he'd eaten last.

Straightening himself, George swung on the lurid green dragon-hide jacket hanging by the remains of the shop door- the jacket whose twin he'd had Fred buried in- and readjusted his hat. "Oi," he said with consideration. "What happened to those pastries?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last time I reread this I thought "...oh, cripes, they would not be sharing a room still when they'd gotten their own flat" but I've decided Fred & George would have done something with a retractable wall, so it was a two-bedroom when they wanted it to be and one room when they preferred, which they'd have gone back to more and more often as the war ramped up... and George would never raise that wall again, after. I planned to edit that fact in but decided not to jam it in ultimately, so here you go, a headcanon. 
> 
> I also know J.K. Rowling has since revealed Ron worked with Harry first, then George, but we didn't know that in 2007!


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> per my old notes: August, just a little into year two without Fred.

One night he headed for Grimmauld Place, hurting for food and family but not enough to burrow to the root of it. Ron had insisted George take the night off and that he'd close up, and had extended an invitation to Harry's. Harry probably was unaware of this, but worst case scenario, George was interrupting a highly romantic double date with candelabras and singing dwarfs. George actually hoped so; it would make gate-crashing even more distractingly entertaining.

He'd always liked Harry. Doubted he could cook, though. George thought longingly of his mother's cooking but reaffirmed his destination with a thought of her teary-eyed lip-trembling in his direction amid the strawberry shortcake last time he'd gone home for dinner.

Besides, Mum would only fuss since he'd gotten an eyebrow blown off a few hours back, forgetting he had to watch his own left side, when skittering around a brawl in Green Dragon Tavern.

It was much easier to stay in London, away from home cooking and gnome gardens and corners where a young Fred and George could come reeling round the bend out of memory, smelling of sulfur and howling with laughter.

He walked in the unlocked door when he got no answer at the doorbell and nearly jumped out of his skin. Something small was moving very quickly across the floor. "Whoa! What's that, a dog or a cat or something?" he asked loudly, shaking it off.

Andromeda Tonks shot him a particularly nasty look that reminded George incredibly of Narcissa Malfoy.

He realized, then, that Teddy Lupin was crawling at a practically surreal speed across Harry's plush new carpet.

Harry was glad to welcome him, though Ginny wasn't there as he'd half-expected. Hermione was visiting, clutching a book on child care, and Neville as well, who greeted George to his shock with a surprisingly strong bear hug. He'd been at Mungo's earlier and seemed strangely protective of everyone.

The baby—toddler, really, who could walk too but did so under protest—was there for the night.

Upon his arrival, Andromeda looked even more nervous about letting Teddy stay while she dealt with a "personal matter". Neville, mouthing across the room, either suggested he provide Teddy with 'toys' or informed George it had to do with the 'Malfoys'. George assumed the latter but nevertheless produced a Nicely Nibbling Teacup from his left robe pocket, which made Teddy giggle with delight (hair bubbling to his mother's bubblegum pink) as it gnawed gently on his chubby little toes. George pretended her nerve-wracked gaze wasn't taking in his missing ear and recently scorched brow with motherly concern.

He let it slide without comment. Tonks' mother was clearly ill at ease in the house of her forbearers, despite all the remodeling. Harry had expanded the hallway by having Ron demolish the walls and Hermione remove them, preserving the pieces with Permanently Stuck heads of Kreacher's predecessors and entrusting them to the house elf somewhere where they were a bit less in one's face.

Hermione, patching up George's eyebrow, began to loudly voice concerns about Harry’s expertise with children the moment she'd assured Andromeda out the door. 

"I was entrusted with the fate of the wizarding world, and you don't trust me with my godson?" Harry finally exclaimed, exasperated.

Hermione sized him up, hands on her hips. She pursed her lips. Then she trained her eyes on Teddy, who was at Neville's startled feet like a small Crup, chewing on one of his shoelaces. Neville could not have been wider-eyed or more immobile if she'd Petrified him. Teddy's nose scrunched smaller in size by a good few inches, as he apparently found the taste unpleasant. "No," she said, quite certainly.

George smirked, but it changed to something like awe as Teddy headed off for new ground at progressively increasing speed. "Say, Harry," he asked curiously, mentally ticking off seconds and gauging the distance. "Got your watch on you?"

Ron arrived after store hours, trying to be grumpy because he hadn't had anything to eat and they'd forgotten about eating in favor of timing the boundless Teddy. Ron perked up to tease Hermione for canceling dinner plans for another bloke—namely, one with currently teal hair rainbowing up to indigo.

Under Ron's encouragement, they took turns attempting to cook in the wizarding fashion, because the Grimmauld kitchen was never intended for Muggle cooking, the way both Hermione and Harry were familiar with. Ron, George, and Neville were still somewhat unaccustomed to feeding themselves. Neville had wondered why Kreacher wasn't cooking, but Hermione hurriedly suggested otherwise. The house-elf was apparently slipping in his age, and despite his bright intentions, eating his constructs was not really in their stomachs' best welfare at the moment.

No one suggested George cook. They'd learned long ago not to take any food he offered, especially when his eyes glittered. There was a certain luster to them tonight, certainly, though he owed that to earlier in the evening.

Hermione, when she tried, produced a perfectly formed and completely alive fowl. She shrieked and hollered too much for George's good ear when Ron tried to subtly sneak a knife from the multitude of sharp skewers leftover from the Black years.

The chicken got away, disappearing in the direction of Number 11 Grimmauld.

Hermione was equally unamused when George suggested feeding the grey lump Ron managed to conjure to Kreacher. Harry was too busy giving the baby a bottle, tickled he'd actually taken it and obsessing over its temperature worse than Hermione, to pay any attention. "He likes me," he repeated, in rapture, lifting Teddy to watch his eyes go emerald green when they met his own.

Clearly, he was useless.

"You give it a go, Neville," encouraged Ron, who seemed completely unaware he was licking his chops.

Neville looked dubious, but followed suit. " _Comeditus_ ," he tried uncertainly, although the charm was really meant to be non-verbal, and a turkey of no great size—but with a fantastic smell—sprouted.

It was both very well done and decidedly dead, so its edibility was agreed upon and they dug in.

Immediately it was apparent the meat was neither turkey nor particularly appetizing. Nor necessarily actual meat. The gristle took some chewing, but it grew on George.

"Eight and two-thirds seconds," Harry noted on Fabian Prewett's watch as Teddy zoomed under the table.

Ron was thoroughly absorbed by his speed, as he was seeing it for the first time. "We should buy him a broomstick," he advanced.

"Yeah!" said Harry, sitting bolt upright.

"Harry!" cried Hermione, scandalized.

"In a few more months," Ron added. "Did Lupin or Tonks play at all?"

They looked around at each other, realizing none of them had any idea, unfamiliar with that chapter in the histories of their friends. The silence was uncomfortable.

George coughed. "Well," he offered limply. "If he takes after his mother, I'd give him a couple years to stay up on it before you start plotting to have him play for England…"

Harry, with Seeker reflexes, snatched up the little Lupin as he scurried from underneath his godfather's chair. He was making for the pretty red light in the fireplace.

"He's a very coordinated crawler," Neville offered, shrugging. Then he grinned. "According to Gran, though, so was I."

They all cracked up, except Teddy, who hiccuped. Hermione's laughter turned quickly into cooing. She made to get up to grab him, but Ron beat her there, scooping up the baby with an almost calamitous casualness and swinging him around while making a whooshing broomstick noise.

George and Hermione watched for the inevitable thud, one with anticipation and one with trepidation.

However, he didn't drop him, merely swiveled him about. George, finding himself disturbingly disappointed, turned back to his food as Ron held Teddy up to scrutinize at arm's length. "Harry, you know, with the hair black like that, he looks like Padfoot a little."

George choked on his tofurkey. Harry had to leap up and clap him on the back.

Hermione paid no attention, clucking disapproval. "Honestly, Ron-"

"I don't mean as a dog!" Ron protested. Teddy had been treated like something small and fluffy a few too many times that night.

"I should think—" Hermione tutted.

"Alright, mate?" asked Harry quietly.

George reached for a glass of water and drained it. He cleared his throat a few times. "I'll live."

Dinner progressed more smoothly when Neville changed the topic, asking if anyone had heard from Luna since she went traveling, opting not to write for the Quibbler after school. From her letters, it sounded as if she was looking into Hairy MacBoons, which everyone else generally called Quintapeds or the 'horrible furry things with five legs and the nasty gnashing teeth'.

They sincerely hoped she'd be back, and intact, but since Luna had insisted she wouldn't return until she'd found her nargles…

George, however, had fallen into a brood and was entirely unconscious to the topic of discussion, which left Hermione casting worried glances at him and Ron trying to provoke a reaction by making unnoticed faces at him. The two of them were the first to leave, despite Hermione's earlier protestations of leaving Teddy alone with Harry. They headed out the door, Ron making bombast good-byes to Harry, Hermione struggling to keep her composure and finish her conversation with Ron's other hand tangled comfortably into her hair and easing her out the door.

"See," George whispered to Neville, winking knowingly though he felt blank inside. "They're in _that_ phase of the relationship."

He stuck his fork in the mashed potatoes forcefully when Longbottom wasn't looking, twisting it with satisfaction until it scratched violently against the plate and both Harry and Neville turned to stare.

Teddy burst into tears.

"I'm getting a drink," announced George, as he remembered where Sirius had hid the firewhiskey Remus hadn't taken from him.

Harry's green eyes flicked to him, then back to Teddy, before nodding assent.

"Neville?" prompted George.

"Aah," said Neville uncertainly, as he was Apparating home.

"No," George assured him, "it won't turn you into a big yellow bird. It _could_ make you think you're one… Butterbeer?"

"Yes, please," said Neville, with relief.

George hurried his way into the kitchen and poured a deep firewhiskey glass for himself while he found the butterbeer. He paused before heading back in, considering. He drew his wand and cast the firewhiskey back into the bottle, and seized the bottle instead.

George tossed the butterbeer at Neville as soon as he was in range. Neville caught it, triumphantly saving it from shattering on the floor. It was a surprisingly good catch, as George had intended him to miss.

Closing his eyes, George slugged three mouthfuls back. The firewhiskey burned its way down his throat, bursting behind his eyelids like a Whiz-Bang gone awry.

Neville and Harry kept talking but their voices slunk away from his ear, Snitches moving too fast to catch on his beat-up old broomstick.

George loved his broomstick, that Cleansweep Five, and Fred's too, since they traded off plenty. They had a couple bendy old Shooting Stars of Perkins' from Dad's office to practice on after outgrowing their toy broomsticks, but when the two of them went off to Hogwarts they understood for the first time where they fit in, wearing Percy's outgrown robes that were too tight and Charlie's that fell short. They knew what it would take to make the team second year, because Charlie was phenomenal but at the worst of times could be outstripped by a better broomstick. They'd scrimped for them, selling their Christmas gifts from Aunt Muriel and overcharging their year-mates for butterbeer and sweets they'd pick up in Hogsmeade whenever they felt like it. They would never have afforded them by themselves, but they came up with enough for half of one. Charlie would have left them his, but they begged and pleaded and reminded him broomsticks were wood and dragons breathed fire. He gave them the money for his new broomstick, because Quidditch was already his past and their future. From there it was more imitating Percy, in the best of ways, and polite, carefully timed requests, and Mr. Weasley caved and bought a broomstick.

…Harry and Neville were muttering something, asking him something. He nodded, smiled, and mulled over the firewhiskey, which on second thought he took another swig of…

They bought the other, and marched their way onto the Hogwarts Express clutching them, like half the other second years relieved to finally bring their broomsticks to school.

Fred had gleefully spun a tale to Lee, Angelina and Kenneth Towler, of their daring escapade across Ottery St. Catchpole's quiet skies which sounded more like a zoom above an airport.

George had thrown in the hot air balloon.

Fred had added they'd popped it—

-but still managed to save the Muggles—

-Muggle _women_ , Fred dashed in, for zest—

-before they hit the ground—

-well, I should _hope_ so—

Angelina had interrupted then, to ask with a skeptical eye, how they'd wiped the Muggles' memories.

George, as usual, had looked to Fred, hopefully imperceptibly.

Why, they'd fainted, Fred had said easily, and proceeded to swoon into his brother's waiting arms.

He missed—

"George!" Harry half-bellowed, his emerald eyes flaring. He was in George's face, having risen from his chair in concern after his friend had proceeded to drain the bottle in a go or two.

George blinked furiously, absorbing their sincere and concerned looks.

Swallowing, he set the bottle down. It spun and teetered on the tabletop.

He needed to say something funny, but Fred wasn't there to give him his cue. 

"Whoops," George said, laughing nervously. "Think Sirius' – or should I say Padfoot's—stash malted too—" He stopped, the pity in the back of their eyes too much. "Y'know, mates, I'd best shove off—" He stopped, this time wondering why his feet weren't on the ground.

"Hang on to Teddy," Harry said to Neville, plopping the baby on Neville’s lap.

George realized then the chair was tipped back onto its hind legs, and slammed it and himself forward with a thud. He pushed himself up, waving Harry off, but his friend—his brother's friend, he corrected—gripped his arm in the stern, friendly way he and Forge had grabbed Percy on a Christmas a long time ago.

George thought Harry would take him to the porch outside, into the Muggle world, and see him safely home. Or worse, call his Mum, who would cry.

Instead Harry walked him up the stairs, tugging him and gently threatening to float him along if George didn't come willingly. Soon enough they were at a room George had not entered the summer he stayed there.

His vision blurred, and he was suddenly seated on a bed, staring at the not-jiggling breasts of a still girl in a bikini that had probably been a vibrant pink before the poster started to fade.

Harry's hands were clasped behind his back, facing away from George. He followed his gaze with a frown as Harry sighed and sat down next to him.

There was a picture of four boys tacked high on the wall. One looked like Harry, one looked like Lupin before life had a few cracks at him.

One was handsome in a way that would have made Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell giggle desperately and Fred roll his eyes at him. George recognized the smirk from the vestige he had known as Sirius Black.

The other boy, he'd never seen before in his life.

"That's my dad," Harry said quietly, pointing, as if George was blind, not half-deaf, and couldn't tell.

Harry grinned, slightly, when he saw George's pained expression. "I've been told I resemble him slightly. Once or twice."

"Thrice, maybe," George suggested weakly, throbbing. "So," he said conversationally, or what he hoped sounded as much. "That's them, then. In the—" Not flesh, he decided. "Moving print?"

"The Marauders." Harry's voice was a study in melancholy, wistfulness, and faint reproach.

"Flashy," George agreed with nobody. "We did all right with 'Weasley', but then they didn't have the—" He struggled, having planned something nifty to say there but losing it in its slow path from his mind to boggy tongue.

"No," Harry said slowly, scratching his head absently. "They weren't brothers by blood."

Rubbing blood into his face, George stared at the long-gone boys, some of whom he'd known as men. He studied the lineless faces, the twinkles in the eight eyes, the broad grin of trouble he knew too well.

"I always figured you knew," the young man who had been a boy who lived muttered abashedly, self-critically.

"Nah," George dismissed, trying to brush easily at the air and whacking Harry's ear instead. He frowned judgmentally at his misbehaving hand. "Busy. Gathering doxy dung, whatnot, sneaking round Mad-Eye—tell you what, I'd a been a bit more willing to sing along with poor ol' Sirius on 'House Elf, Go A-Wassailing' if—I—wow." He considered the picture and Harry's studiously calm features. "We were _thick_." Moony the werewolf, Padfoot the big black dog galloping around Grimmauld, the number of times they'd seen Harry's Patronus in DA meetings…

"Ron never told you?"

"Maybe tried. We don't listen to him much," George said listlessly. "I do now," he amended, voice slipping in decibel to almost nothing.

He had always thought of the Marauders as part of a distant past, long old or dead. Fat and happy with small grandchildren whose teddy bears they regularly turned into spiders, for gits and shiggles. Possibly part owners of Zonko's.

This was positively depressing.

"Who's the fat kid?" he asked abruptly, with a sick feeling that wasn't from the alcohol.

"Worm-" Harry interrupted himself, under George's continued 'painfully obvious' look. Harry's jaw clenched itself, and his wand hand flexed unconsciously. "Peter Pettigrew."

The real Secret Keeper who Sirius Black had supposedly killed. Mum had explained that, back in the 'why we're going to stay in the house of a mass murderer' period.

"Scabbers," Harry elaborated, under his look. George frantically rubbed at his face again. "You really didn't listen to Ron much," Harry said, amazed.

Percy had been displeased over the fate of his old pet, which they had all been certain of. 

"Crookshanks _ate_ him," George said weakly, bewildered, and vaguely tried to listen as Harry began talking, his firm, business voice something solid to grasp aside from the grinning faces of four boys as dead as Fred.

Harry had taken a lot for granted, but pieces rang familiar as elements he knew clicked with what he didn't. Apparently neither Ron nor Dumbledore particularly wanted to inform the family Weasley they'd housed for more than twelve years a Death Eater responsible for the return of Voldemort as well as, directly, the deaths of Harry's parents. George wished he'd known, even so.

He put his head in his hands, because it was very heavy and the alternative would be to cry in front of Harry Potter. Which would feel darn stupid.

"They could have told us how they made the map," he found himself moaning. "Y'know how much we could make selling copies?"

Harry half-jumped from the bed in surprise, then broke into a choking laughter that died when George snorted into his hands.

"Wish he—"

"He knows," Harry assured him immediately, because he too was getting desperately nervous about George crying in front of him. "Lupin maybe, or Sirius—possibly my dad—one of them would have broken it to him—"

George was sitting up at once. Feeling fevered, he stared holes into Harry.

Harry stammered. "I did die," he offered at last, throat trembling. "They're still there."

George looked away for a long minute, finally locking his eyes with Sirius Black's photographic ones to avoid Harry's examination. He bit the inside of his lower lip to keep it from trembling. "He's not _here_."

Harry grasped his wrist, then his hand as if they were about to arm wrestle. At last George met his gaze. He felt very drunk and deeper, lost, but Harry Potter has become the sort of man who could anchor quite a lot of trouble. 

"George," Harry said seriously. "There will be no hurling yourself in any lakes, as you'll probably get chucked back out by giant squid anyhow."

He chuckled, warily. "Fred would be the one getting soaked. He had the flair."

"So do you, mate," said Harry, with a wavering grin.

"Is this," said George wearily, sliding his arm free, "the part where you say I'll be all right?"

"No," his friend replied, earnestly solemn this time as he leapt to his feet. Harry was a pacer’ he looked poised to get started. "I hope you'll be, but… that's up to you, George." 

George did a confused double-take as Harry's eyes flicked to the young Marauders, Sirius in particular. "I can't tell you what Fred would want you to do, but you'd know, I reckon."

The worst part is that George didn’t, really. Because they weren't the same person, not really, because he and Fred endlessly surprised and surpassed each other. He couldn't finish his own sentences, because he could only guess—though he was probably right—what Fred would say.

"I still think we could do with more laughs in the world," Harry said. "And as far as I knew him, I think Fred would say the same."

George nodded, weary. He was trying. It was hard.

He gathered, from his expression, that Harry got that. 

"I hope you don't mind staying here," Harry offered after a silence. "Neville'll want to be getting home, and I'm no great hand at Side-Along Apparition. I think it goes without saying you won't be Apparating or Flooing home from my house."

Home. Funny thing. George decided to pretend he hadn't noticed Harry pocketing his own trusty, prank-friendly wand, until morning, at any rate. 

"Wouldn't want to lose another ear," he said off-handedly, flopping on the bed, which was lumpy. Harry stifled a laugh.

"Promise me," said George without looking up, "I won't wake up to find my sister wandering around here in her nightie."

"Promise," said Harry. 

(Harry resolved to ensure Ginny knew not to swing by after the team meeting after all, while hoping she wasn't already downstairs chatting with Neville. Kicking her out for her brother would be awkward, but it was an honor code, sort of, though he supposed he could get around the wording of it…) 

"G'night, George."

"Night, Harry."

The door closed behind him with a resounding click. George thought he might get under the covers, but his head was muzzy and limbs leaden, so he stayed where he was.

He didn't know how long he stared at the ceiling, watching James Potter mess up his hair and glance outside the photograph and Remus Lupin silently laugh as George had never seen him laugh in life, not with Sirius around Grimmauld, not with Tonks.

Of course he might not have been looking.

Sirius Black ruffled Pettigrew's hair and beamed at him, or whoever was taking the picture.

George tried not to think of Colin Creevey, and Dennis with his forlorn eyes.

Instead he focused on the Marauder's Map, their first year at Hogwarts, the handwriting of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs scrolling across the bit of old parchment and remembered how Fred had crowed in delight, and how the two of them had done a jig atop of the sleeping Lee Jordan in the middle of the night.

Lee had cursed them silly, naturally, but the boils faded, while the delight hadn't. Ever.

At last George forced himself to his feet to flick off the aching light, then collapsed onto the stiff old mattress.

Ignoring his burning eyes, he laughed himself to sleep.


End file.
